Such a Good Friend
by Aragarna
Summary: When a missile hits the rooftop John is standing on, it's Harold's whole world that crashes. - Post finale angst.
1. Chapter 1

Harold reached the street just in time to see John's figure disappear from his sight. Yet, the ongoing echo of gunshots were telling him that, even down on his knees, John kept on fighting. Harold was exhausted and totally in shock, both from what John had just done to protect him, and from the gunshot wound. He was dying inside, in his body and in his soul. The sound of every shot coming from the rooftop echoed in his chest as if they were aimed at him. John, his friend and partner, outsmarted him and walked to a certain death without hesitation, without a blink, because all that mattered to him was Harold's life.

The day he recruited John, Harold had just been looking for a partner in his secret enterprise of saving the irrelevant numbers, someone who had the field skills that he himself lacked – and if at all possible, a little more accommodating than Mr. Dillinger. Harold had known from the start that Mr. Reese was a good pick. Despite their different characters, they would make a good pair, and not just because John was bringing donuts every morning.

But never had Harold meant for things to end like this. He hired John to save lives, not to sacrifice his. And certainly not in exchange for Harold's.

He was leaning against the pole of a bus stop, his eyes glued to the rooftop of the building on the other side of the street, oblivious of everything else around him. He was unable to move, unable to think, barely able to stay conscious. John's words kept echoing in his ears, reverberating all the way to his bleeding heart.

 _Told you, I'd pay you back all at once, that's the way I like it._

 _Sometimes, one life, if it's the right life, it's enough._

Harold knew he should leave. If John was by his side, instead of trying to save the world over there, he would grab him by the arm, and drag him to safety. Harold would have given anything to be unceremoniously dragged away by an angry Mr. Reese while being lectured about the little regard he seemed to have for his safety.

But Harold couldn't get himself to leave. He just couldn't leave John. He also had not a single ounce of energy left to move from where he was.

He knew it was coming, and yet he was still filled with the worst of horror when he saw the missile tear the sky and fall on the building where he could still hear the echoes of the gun fight a minute ago. The building collapsed, and so did Harold.

* * *

Dazed and confused, Harold woke up in a hospital room, surrounded by nurses, noise and monitors. He didn't care. He had learned to live with physical pain for six years now. What was a little gunshot wound? He barely paid attention to any of the things happening around him anyway. All his thoughts still circled around the rooftop where he had last seen John, where he had seen a missile fall, and destroy the whole building. Part of him was still in denial of what he had witnessed.

How could the world continue to spin, look so normal?

Part of Harold wanted to believe John was still alive. But the fact that John wasn't by his side at this very moment, at the hospital, to look over him, was enough to tell him John was gone. Precisely because Harold knew that John would stay by his side until his last breath.

* * *

Barely standing on his feet, Harold left the hospital and went to meet with Agent Terence Beale. John's former CIA boss was having an early lunch in a small diner in Midtown. Harold slid into the seat opposite him and stared at him coldly, channeling the menacing Mr. Egret as best as he could despite his weak state.

Beale frowned and quickly surveyed the diner and the street through the window, trying to see if the intruder had brought company with him.

His gaze finally returned to Harold. "Do I know you?" he asked coolly.

"You don't," Harold said calmly. "But you knew my partner."

He slid a thin folder across the table. Beale pushed his plate aside and peeked inside the folder, where Harold had put a picture of John, along with incriminating documents from the operation _Desert Rain_ that John had uncovered while helping a number.

"I know the CIA stole his body from the morgue. I know you'd rather pretend nothing happened and that John had been dead all along. I also know that John would say he doesn't care, but see, Agent Beale, _I_ care. John died saving the world, saving me, and I think he deserves better than being swept under the rug by his former employers."

Beale listened in silence, holding Harold's gaze.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want the CIA to give John a proper burial, and the appropriate memorial ceremony for the hero he was. After everything he's done for you, this is the least you can do."

"And if I don't?"

Harold pointed at the folder in front of Beale. "If you don't, I'm sure Maxine Angelis, the New York Journal's ambitious reporter, will be delighted to hear about Operation Desert Rain."

Beale paled.

"And before you start planning my murder, Agent Beale, be assured I took my precautions. If anything were to happen to me, the story would find its way to Ms. Angelis' desk."

A short smile of appreciation brushed Beale's lips.

"But I know you will make the right decision," Harold added.

"He was a good agent," Beale said. "I've been saddened to hear about his recent death. But I was glad to learn he didn't die during that mission in China. It probably doesn't change anything now, but I never agreed to that mission. I've always appreciated him. More than a good agent, he was a good man, and those are too rare in our profession."

Harold nodded. "Good men are too rare anywhere," he said in a low voice.

And men of John's fiber were even more exceptional. John was too much of a good man for his own good, always putting other people's lives, _Harold_ 's life, before his, until it ultimately cost him his life.

A lump in his throat, Harold started to get up, but Beale gestured for him to sit down.

"So, what was your business, you and John? Saving people?"

Harold's heart sank. Beale's past tense reminded him that indeed it was over. For John, and thus for himself.

He readjusted his glasses. "Something like that."

"Whatever it was, it seemed it did him some good. When our paths crossed last fall, he seemed… happier – more alive, for lack of a better word – than when he was in the CIA."

And yet now he was dead. Unable to speak, Harold nodded shortly and quickly left the diner.

* * *

A couple of days later, Harold watched Shaw and Lionel share a meal, while he remained hidden, outside, unable to join them. He was relieved to see them both alive and well. Detective Fusco seemed to have recovered easily from his stab wound. Harold had been following him all the way from the precinct with the intention to meet them. He wanted to tell them that he was done with the mission, and that he'd be leaving soon for Italy. He wanted to explain that he couldn't do it anymore, that the weight of too many losses was too much for him to carry, and it was time for him to retire. He meant to thank them for their help and wish them well.

But now that he was there, watching Lionel and Shaw sitting opposite each other in that diner, with Bear at their feet, he couldn't make himself go in. He didn't have the strength to break the news to them. He didn't have the strength to _be_ with them without John. He couldn't go in and reunite with his friends. Not without John. The simple sight of Lionel, Sameen and Bear, reminded him too much that John wasn't there anymore. Seeing the three of them, all brought into the team by John himself, made his absence even more striking.

Unable to bear it any longer, Harold turned around and disappeared.

* * *

Agent Beale kept his promise and, a few days later, an official ceremony in John's honor was held at the Cypress Hills National military cemetery. With a heavy heart but some small solace of having done what he could to honor his fallen friend, Harold booked a flight to Rome for the next day.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

She was as beautiful as ever, her bright red hair shining softly in the evening light of this warm summer day. As if sensing his presence, she straightened at her easel and looked over her shoulder. Hesitant, unsure of what would be her reaction to his "resurrection", Harold didn't dare to move. Her gaze fell on him, and a soft smile slowly enlightened her face. A warm wave grew inside Harold's chest, radiating throughout his body. He smiled back.

As if they were both afraid to break the spell, unsure that this moment was truly real, they walked toward each other very slowly, without breaking eye contact.

"Harold," she said with her sweet and melodious voice, which he had missed so much. "It's really you, isn't it?"

They fell into each other's arms. Unable to speak, Harold let the wave of happiness rush over him. Finally, after all those years, he was feeling whole again. He was holding Grace in his arms. She was here, with him, gently wrapping her arms around his torso, her hands stroking the small of his back. But as he was overwhelmed by the tenderness of the moment, Harold remembered that it was all thanks to John. His happy ending was at the price of his friend's sacrifice. A price that John knowingly paid, for him.

And Harold finally burst into tears. Unable to hold them any longer, he let the tears fall from his eyes, heavy, painful, bitter. His body was shaken by uncontrollable sobs. The outpouring was unstoppable.

He buried his face in Grace's shoulder and she pressed him more firmly in her embrace. She was speaking softly to him, but he couldn't make out the words. Gently, she pulled him toward the closest bench and they sat, leaning in each other's hold, arms entangled.

After what seemed like an embarrassing eternity, Harold finally managed to get a bit of control over his sobbing. He pulled away, took off his glasses and swept away his tears. He put his glasses back on and turned to Grace, who was looking intently at him, her big blue eyes filled with concern.

"I'm sorry," he said in a raspy voice. "This was probably not what you expected."

She smiled softly. "I wasn't expecting anything, Harold."

Harold's already battered heart brutally sank further in his chest. Of course, she wasn't expecting any of this. He was dead to her. He had been dead for six years. Because he let her believe so. A knot of guilt in the stomach, Harold looked up at her, expecting to read reproach in her eyes. But he only saw kindness and a hint of interrogation. He didn't deserve someone so good.

"Harold," she repeated softly. "I hadn't said that name in so long. I've missed saying it." She tilted her head and smiled cheekily. "And I've missed you, of course."

"I'm so sorry, Grace," Harold finally managed to articulate. "Words simply cannot convey how sorry I am."

He had been dreaming of this moment so many times, despite having the absolute certitude it would never actually happen. He had made his choice and he had accepted it was the right thing to do. But at the same time, he couldn't prevent his imagination from running all the possible scenarios he could come up with. He'd picked different settings, played imaginary dialogues in his head, tried to guess her reaction. He had imagined _her_ crying. Or smiling, or being angry. Disappointed sometimes, to learn that he hadn't trusted her. But he had never thought any of it would ever happen.

And yet, it did.

Because of John.

John, the selfless hero, who was always putting his life on the line so that people could safely live theirs, and who had sacrificed it for his friend. John, who made the world safe again – or at least finally safe enough for Harold to reunite with Grace.

"He saved my life," he said, as if it was enough to explain everything. "It was his final gift. He died so that I could live. I tried to save him. I even locked him up." Harold shook his head. "But they conspired against me. To save me. Just as _I_ was trying to save _them_. He was such a good friend, and a good man."

He closed his eyes and the memory of John on the rooftop, blurred by the distance but his voice crystal clear in Harold's ear, resurfaced. _Good bye, Harold._

Why? Why couldn't John accept Harold's attempt at saving him? Why did he have to outsmart him and go against Harold's will? Harold couldn't believe John and the Machine had had a deal all this time. In a way, it shouldn't surprise him. He should have known. Both John and the Machine were born to protect people and both had grown unreasonably protective of him, despite Harold's best efforts to tell them otherwise.

"Who saved your life? Who are you talking about?"

Grace's voice startled him and called him back to the present.

"John," Harold said in a whisper.

He tried to remember what name John had used with her. "I believe you knew him as Detective Stills. But to me, he was Mr. Reese."

"Oh. Yes, I remember him. Tall, kind eyes…" Her voice trailed off. "It was you on the bridge, wasn't it? They were looking for you?" She said after a pause.

Harold nodded. "Yes, and I'm sorry you got drawn into that. The reason why I let you believe I was dead was precisely to avoid such things. I wanted to protect you."

Grace gently squeezed Harold's hands in hers. "I think it's time you tell me what I need to know about you, and about what you do."

Harold suddenly straightened up and gazed around. With all the emotions caused by seeing Grace again, he had forgotten where he was and had let his guard down. Now he felt terribly exposed. He scanned the area for surveillance cameras, scrutinized the crowd for anyone suspiciously standing out.

"Could we go somewhere more private?"

* * *

Grace led Harold to her small apartment in an old building a little outside of Rome's city center. All the way, she held his hand tightly in hers. She could barely take her eyes off him. It felt so surreal, so impossible, that she was afraid to wake up at any moment and realize it was just a dream. But even if it was just a dream, it sure was a lovely one. She'd have to try and remember all the little details.

She didn't really understand the chain of events that had miraculously brought Harold back to her, but it was clear it had been a difficult and terribly emotional journey for him. The few years that kept them apart had taken their toll on him. He seemed older, tired. Grace also noticed his stiff posture and his limp that were new to her. Something had fundamentally changed in Harold.

She let him in, encouraged him to sit down and relax, patting the sofa cushions. "Make yourself at home, Harold. I'm going to make you some tea."

She disappeared into the kitchen and quickly boiled some water. She prepared a small tray with a cup, a box of Sencha green tea and a plate of Italian cookies. She poured the steaming water into the cup and brought the tray to Harold, who was quietly observing his surroundings from his spot on the sofa. Grace noticed his gaze lingering on the small bookshelf and the picture of the two of them displayed in front of it. A small smile, full of tenderness, finally appeared on his face.

He turned his attention back to her. "I kept it too. An encrypted file on my computer. That was terribly unsafe, but looking at it every once in a while brought me an ounce of solace."

She laughed. "Then I feel a lot less foolish about this," she said, pointing at the box of Sencha green tea. "I was keeping a box, which is silly and terribly sentimental, but the presence of that little box of your tea was comforting. That was the one little thing of you that I couldn't get rid of. This and our picture," she added, pointing at it.

She put the tray on the coffee table in front of him and she sat down by his side, snuggling against him and resting her head on his shoulder.

"I've missed this," she said, more to herself than to Harold. She straightened up and looked him in the eyes. "Okay, now tell me everything."

And so he did. It was all confused, and out of order. There was a lot Grace didn't really grasp. He told her about his friend Nathan, and about the machine they built together.

"The ferry bombing in 2010 was my fault. They thought Nathan built the Machine on his own. He was about to talk to the press, they couldn't let this happen. So they killed everyone, to keep the Machine secret. The Machine I built. All those people died because of me."

"No, Harold," Grace said, "this wasn't your fault."

"I tried to talk Nathan out of it. I tried…" Harold's voice broke and his eyes filled with tears again. "First Nathan, now John… Both such dear friends, and incredibly good men…" Harold shook his head. "It's not fair that I'm the one that gets to live."

Harold fell silent and pensively took a sip from his tea. "What I would give to be able to show Nathan what we did. The team. All the irrelevant people we saved over the years. All thanks to his irrelevant protocol. In a way, Nathan is the one who saved all those people."

Grace gently stroked his arm. "Nathan would have been proud of what you accomplished."

He put the cup back on the tray and turned to face Grace. Through the lenses of his glasses, his clear blue eyes locked into hers.

"They killed him because he knew about the Machine. And when I saw you at the emergency shelter, I panicked. I was afraid they'd find out about me and that they'd go after everyone I knew. After you. And I couldn't bear the pain of even risking endangering your life."

Grace's heart ached, remembering that fateful day when she had lost her fiancé. The pain, the months of mourning, everything came back to her.

"I'm sorry," Harold said in a low voice, gently sweeping away the tear that was rolling down her cheek.

She shook her head. "I understand, Harold. You did what you had to do. I'm just grateful you finally came back to me. And I hope I won't lose you again."

He looked up and she saw in his eyes, all he didn't dare to say. That he didn't want to lose her either, but that he couldn't make her the promise not to disappear again.

"Back when I was still testing it, the machine sent me your number. It was like she was playing matchmaker."

Grace laughed. "Now I can see this is a very intelligent machine."

It was funny to hear Harold talk about his machine, almost like it was a friend. A child maybe. He even gave it a gender. Harold talked for hours, mostly about his secret mission with his incredible team of misfits, Lionel, Joss, Shaw, Root – that one sounded plain crazy - but the one person that Harold's thoughts kept coming back to, that seemed to have been the center of his existence for the past five years, was his friend John. There was no one he talked about with more fondness.

"He had such a big heart. And he came so close to dying without knowing all the potential for good that he had in him. There was something heartbreaking in the way he always seemed surprised that I'd keep coming to save him."

"How did you two meet?"

"The Machine introduced us too. I've always thought it was because she saw his incredible skills and the great team we'd make – and we did make a great team. But now I wonder…"

He marked a pause, lost himself in his thoughts.

"What is it?" Grace asked softly.

"I think all along, she just wanted to protect me."

"Of course she did. She's a reflection of you, Harold. And you built this machine to protect people. It's a beautiful thing that you built. I can see why your friends valued you so much."

Harold felt silent again, clearly reliving painful events.

"Do you have any pictures of them, Nathan and John?" she asked softly.

Harold shook his head sadly. "I had an old picture of me and Nathan from college, but I've lost it. And John and I were so paranoid about getting caught, that we never made any pictures. All I had were ID mug shots and I didn't keep them."

Harold's phone beeped. Surprised, he wriggled to retrieve it from his pocket. Grace bent over to look over his shoulder. It was a new email. There was no subject line and no text. Not even any sender information. It only contained three attached files, labelled _Nathan_ , _John_ and _team_.

Heart suddenly pounding, Harold opened them. The first one was a copy of his lost picture with Nathan from MIT. The second one was a picture of him and John walking Bear near Bryant Park in New York. Finally, the last one seemed to be a capture from surveillance footage, showing the Queensboro Bridge from Brooklyn. In the foreground, he recognized the figures of Shaw, Root, himself, John and Lionel.

"Send them to me," Grace suggested, "I'll print them."

Harold shook his head. "It wouldn't be safe."

"Think the Machine would send you those pictures if she didn't think it was safe enough?"

Harold looked taken aback. But he relaxed and smiled. "You're catching up fast."

He forwarded her the email, and she went to her computer to have the pictures printed. She then collected them from her printer and put them next to their photo on the bookshelf.

"Tomorrow we'll go and buy some proper frames for them," she said.

Harold got up and slid his arms around her waist as they looked at the pictures. "Thank you," he said tenderly. "I love you."

The End.


End file.
